


And Then...

by Fyre



Series: Bend the Rules [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzy French decides to teach Mr Gold the importance of paying attention to Monty Python quotes.</p><p>A sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/380209">Understanding the Rules</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then...

There was very little Mr Gold regretted.

Rumpelstiltskin regretted plenty, but Mr Gold always left that side of himself carefully closed away to be taken out and examined only in the privacy of his own home. In his shop, he is Mr Gold and Mr Gold regrets very little. 

The one thing he does regret is his dealings with Miss Isabelle French, Moe French’s stubborn sylph of a daughter. Or more particularly, her lessons in the nature of business and the rules that must be followed.

He had returned from business three days before to find her sprawled like a Goddess on the counter, her feet propped on the cash register, the edge of her stripy knickers visible under the folds of her skirt that had cascaded down her bare legs to drape over her hips. And all he had done was spank the girl silly and stick his hand down her knickers, teasing her until she all but collapsed at his feet.

The image of her bent over the counter was refusing to leave him.

It was bloody annoying, trying to do inventory, when all you can imagine is your shop assistant and her lace-edged knickers, her skirt up over her hips.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then looked at the list in front of him. He knew he’d checked it a dozen times already, but every time he tried to focus, he’d catch a glimpse of her in the shop, either dusting or polishing or even just sitting on a stool and reading. 

She wasn’t helping either.

Every so often, the little minx would reach under the counter and move the jars there, despite knowing the rules about touching or opening them. It was almost as if she wanted him to bend her over his knee again. And every time he thought he could concentrate, he would look up and she would be bending over the counter to talk to a customer.

He took a breath, counted to ten, and told himself calmly and quietly that he could think about such things when he got home.

It was one thing to play the girl like a piano, but it was quite another to want to pin her down on the counter and take her every way imaginable as hard and fast as possible. As much as she had enjoyed their previous encounter, he knew it would be pushing matters too far. She was still a young lady.

He propped his forehead against his left hand and forced his attention down onto the lists of inventory.

He heard the rustle of the curtains, then the sound of the brush on the floor, but he kept on working through the list. It had to be done, even if she was in the same room as him and her perfume was winding its way around him like vines. She was always thorough, insisting on cleaning the backshop as well as the front when it was quiet. 

The brush whispered its way around the room, and the sound was almost soothing. The list was almost complete, and he was almost able to ignore the perfume. It was different, more lily this time, less vanilla.

The brush knocked against his shoes. 

He looked up, expecting to see Isabelle, at which point hands touched his thighs. Under the table. The brush wasn’t knocking against anything. He tried to push the chair back, but one of the hands moved and caught the leg of the chair, holding it in place.

“Miss French,” he warned, as her hand slid up his inner thigh.

She laughed, and her cheek pressed to his other thigh, and by all the Gods, he didn’t need her giving him any more ideas. He clenched his fists, staring straight ahead, trying to ignore the intricate patterns she was tracing on his skin through his trousers. 

She pushed his knees apart, and he could feel the warmth of her between his legs. She released the chairleg only to run her hand up his leg instead, caressing over his calf, even around his damaged knee and onto his thigh, even as she rubbed her cheek against him.

“Miss French…” he said again, his voice strained. “If you don’t mind…”

She tilted her head, peeking out from under the table. “I don’t,” she said, eyes dancing, then vanished and he felt her soft cheek rubbing against his crotch and he was sure his heart was folding over in his chest, the speed it was going.

He unfolded one hand, to try and push back from the edge of the table, but her fingers were at his belt, and his trousers were being undone all too quickly by fingers that should have belonged to a pickpocket, so light and deft.

“I don’t think…” His words broke off when she cupped him through the trousers. Her hand was small, but she moved it like she knew exactly how to take every thought from his head and dash it to pieces on the floor. 

It was all right. There was still at least one layer between them. That was enough.

She licked him through the silk of his boxer shorts.

Both of Gold’s hands grabbed convulsively onto the edge of the table. “Miss French,” he gritted out hoarsely.

He heard her laugh and the wicked creature only made it worse by nuzzling him from the balls up. She was practically rubbing her face all over him, and he couldn’t see a damn thing, but he could feel the lips, the cheeks, the nose, the brow, her delicate, lovely, pretty face and he couldn’t see it.

“Isabelle,” he growled as she licked him again, her hands kneading at his thighs.

“Hmm?”

The fabric was damp and cooling, and her breath was warm, and the fabric was clinging in ridiculous ways. And he could feel the brush of her tongue-stud dragging against him, and the thought of that against bare skin…

He forced the chair back, enough so he could see her.

Wide blue eyes looked up at him innocently, but her lipstick was redder than usual and smudged, and she was biting her bottom lip. His brain stopped dead, and she made her move, crawling closer and bowing her head over his lap again as he stared wide-eyed at her.

She rubbed her cheek against his growing hardness, and then teased her mouth around it, through the silk. Gold grabbed at the arms of the chair. It was that or her hair, and he was not - _he was not_ \- going to force her down on him, no matter how tempting the little vixen was making it.

She looked up at him, lips curving. “Am I disturbing you, Mr Gold?” she breathed.

“Oh, yeah,” he gasped out, as one of her hands rubbed along the seam of his trousers.

She bit her lip again innocently, as her fingers liberated him from the boxers. She met his eyes, knowing and fearless, and leaned down to kiss the tip of his prick. He was going to break the bloody arms off the bloody chair!

She traced her lips around him, slowly, then rubbed her cheek against his length, her hair soft and tangling around him, and if he got out of this without throwing her on the floor and taking her there and then, he would declare himself a bloody saint.

“Isabelle,” he growled.

She lifted her head and looked at him, and then licked the full length of him, and every second that bloody blessed goddamned tongue piercing moved, it was like electricity rocketing through him. He twitched, but he held onto the arms of the chair, gripped them until he could feel the impressions in his palms, tried to breathe.

Then the woman only made it worse. Patterns. She licked in patterns. Patterns that ended in her taking him in her mouth and licking again, and sucking, and God, where did she learn to do something like that? His hips jerked towards her, like she had him on a string, and he stifled short, sharp noises in his throat.

“Good?” she whispered mischievously, wrapping her hand around him and moving it.

He bared his teeth at her, then whimpered - actually bloody whimpered - when she licked at the tip of his cock again and again and again, her hand moving up and down and making him squirm and whine like a schoolboy with his first hard-on.

When she lowered her head again and took him whole, he pressed his head back against the chair, his hands shaking on the arms of the chair. She laughed against him, a low and dirty chuckle, and that was as bad as the tongue stud. He almost jumped when one of her hands touched his, lifting it, guiding it to her hair and he groaned again, kneading at the back of her neck as she started moving on him, tongue, teeth, lips, piercing, even her hand.

How she was, he couldn’t understand, how, how she learned that, her tongue, that way, with the stud rubbing against him, again, hard and soft and hard again, and licking, lapping, sucking. Her hair was in his hand, and he was holding her, and she was still licking and his hips were moving of their own accord. Her mouth was hot, greedy. Hot and greedy and licking, and he hips twitched and jerked and he tried not to, not to force, not to hurt, but she was taking everything, all he had and her mouth was so so very very hot and she was licking, still…

Her name caught in his throat when he came, his hand in her hair, her hands on his thighs, and his head slammed back against the back of the chair.

Her mouth, her wicked, wicked mouth, kept moving, slowly, taking every last bit of him, and he sagged, gasping, her hair tangled around his fingers. 

She finally sat back on her heels, propping her arms on his thighs and gazed up at him, those blue eyes gleaming. With one finger, she wiped a smear from the corner of her mouth, then licked her fingertip clean.

He tried to even his breathing, tried to think to speak.

“You had it coming,” she said, cupping her chin in one hand.

“Wh-what?”

She grinned at him, all smudge-mouthed and smug. “It’s like Monty Python says,” she said. “A spanking, a spanking, and then…” She gestured with her other hand to his unbuttoned trousers, boxers and the contents thereof. 

He blinked at her. “I don’t follow.”

She laughed, and he wished he could freeze the moment, her expression dazzling.

“You’ll learn,” she said, then she was gone, away, under the table and popped out the other side, as if she hadn’t just turned him into a quivering mass of jelly. The bell rang in the shop and she disappeared in a laughing whirl of skirt.

Mr Gold stared after her.

It was at least ten minutes before he remembered to tuck himself away and do up his trousers.

**Author's Note:**

> The final part of this little trilogy is [A Red Red Rose](http://archiveofourown.org/works/383153)


End file.
